Broken
by blurredfrenzy
Summary: One shot. An ailing knight struggles on his path, even as the curse of undeath starts to close in.


**Broken**

His armour felt heavier than when he first found it. Every step ached, bringing fresh pain coursing through his damaged body. His head hung in despair, the occasional flake of dead skin or rust fluttering to the rotten planks underfoot. His armour was tarnished and corroded, its surface reflective of the man within. Gashes and dents dotted the once shining metal, while blood dripped through the chainmail undershirt, leaking down his body from the gaps between the plates. The longsword he held in a death grip between his fingers was in a similar state, its blood-encrusted blade chipped from continuous use.

The end was near. He could feel it. The once great knight, a wretched mockery of his former self, forced his feet to step forwards, even when his mind told him to stop. To sit and wait his inescapable fate. But how could one awarded the honour of knighthood simply bow his head and succumb? Was it not his place to find peace in the completion of his task? And so he continued, across the twisted bridges, whose malice manifested in a passive swaying, so desperate to dislodge him. He walked the platforms, and climbed the ladders, and never stopped. When the slobbering fiends and wretches that call this place home threw themselves at him, with purple, veiny skin and bloated throats, he cut them down. His sword tasted fresh blood, bathed in the sanguine red. Fanged jaws were bashed in, and inhuman purple flesh was carved open. It took its toll. The knight wasn't slowing, but he was wearing out. The taste of the souls became an insatiable hunger, a ravenous longing for the very essence of life, the essence of what he was losing. Even while his humanity slipped away, fading from his withered body and ailing mind he never faltered. The hunger kept him going.

He looked out across the filth below. Colossal stone walls, several metres thick, penned in the myriad of wretched abominations that dragged themselves through the poison. The platform moved beneath him, gently carrying him down. He swung his longsword, cutting away the spindly limbs of the creatures that drifted towards him, their bloated grey bodies opening in gouts of ethereal fire. His armour was blackened across the front and the shoulder, the flesh beneath bubbling. He barely felt it, his nerves having deadened long ago. But he felt the poison. He waded through it and his whole body tingled as the few remaining nerves screamed for him to crawl onto the nearest bank. But he wouldn't back down here. Even as the sickness welled in his stomach he reached the colossal mound of earth and web, tendrils of rock jutting from the ground. He broke into a run, his rotting legs carrying him as fast as he could go, towards that opening. His small hope. He could hear the growls of the towering effigies of rot behind him, the boulders smashing against the ground. He didn't feel it, but his lower legs gave way and he fell to the ground. His sword was sheathed and he clawed at the ground, dragging himself onwards, despite his crushed legs. Dark blood stained the earth in a wide trail as he reached the opening rolling down the small slope on the other side. He took out his flask, speckled emerald glowing with the golden orange light it contained. He finished the last mouthful of estus from the already mostly empty flash, storing it. Once again his legs functioned, their vitality breathed back into them.

People crawled about the floor, making slow progress. Huge eggs erupted from their dried backs in clumps, faces beneath staring without thought at the trespasser. The passive creatures ignored the ailing knight, and he reached his destination. His hand felt the bright fog, fingers pressing into the mist. He drew his sword and traversed the white light.

The twisted mockery of Izalith's daughter lumbered forth on great black legs. A fanged maw dripped magma and a topless woman twisted her beautiful face into a cruel smile. The chaos witch lunged forwards, shaking the ground with a furious landing. Black metal bathed in fire met bloodied steel, the clanging echoing throughout the great cavern alongside orange sparks. The knight weaved sideways as the blade missed, spilling red blood with his own attack. It felt like hours, the hypnotic clang of metal on metal only interrupted by grunts of exertion and ravenous growls. He had nothing left in him. Even as his armour came apart in an eruption of jagged metal, as flesh parted in a crimson spray, he felt nothing. He came so far, but it was not to be. No matter. He was resigned to his fate, resigned to join the scores of others who failed their own personal quests. And the ones who succeeded, but couldn't live with the consequences.

He fell to his knees, longsword clattering to the floor. Those dreadful fangs parted, and all his troubles were washed away in a sea of liquid fire.


End file.
